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Fucking money. 20 thousand dollars I may never have for a thing I don’t need. I could get a craigslist car for five grand. But fuck that. No more tow trucks. No more haggling with Armenians.

It has a sunroof. Picture driving to the desert. The stars. A girl. A girl… I’m buying the fantasy. All wheel drive in snow. 4 more horsepower than previous models. Have to haggle over interest rates. They know I’m a sucker. Don’t show them your cards. Don’t tell them your mommy can cosign for you if your welfare queen credit score is an issue. Don’t tell them this, don’t tell them that. Be prepared to walk away.

I’m a fraud. I don’t have money. I suck at negotiating. I can’t lie. All business is sales. All sales is lies. Don’t get invested. Overpriced piece of plastic. And yet– god damn what a machine. I love it, I hate it, I’m afraid of it, I’m afraid of being afraid to park it on the street. An acorn falls on it and it explodes.

Meanwhile I have an infection that will eat my face. Rough spreading redness between the eyes. Lotion on it every day. By night it recedes. Then when I wake it’s worse. It will spread to my eyeballs and blind me. Die horrible from eye AIDS but first I’ll never get laid again and every woman will laugh at my small penis. And the cat will die.

This is why I can’t have kids. Every minute imagining a rapist vivisecting them. You make a kid, you make a target for acid throwers. Limb severers. As it is I spend at least ten minutes per day picturing a van fragging the cat with its back tires. That’s enough. I don’t need more things to love and be afraid of losing.

All your fears are true. You will die. You will die painfully. The least painful death conceivable is the guillotine. I bet that hurts like a bitch. The blade slicing through your neck nerves, fast as it is– time telescopes out and out and you’re in that moment for a thousand years. Like the stairmaster. Working off one Mrs. Fields Fucking cookie you follow a long train of thought about kneebones grinding. Run lost down long cornering corridors of hate, fear. pain, knowledge of future pain. Look up. The seconds digit hasn’t turned. Watch it laying still for a very long time. Only after does it seem like nothing. In the car with the NPR over the windshield wipers groaning in the cold rain. Cavernously hungry for a Mrs. Field’s cookie. You’re fat. You’ll always be fat. Your soul is fat. No matter how skinny you get people look in your eyes and see fat. Fat ugly stupid small penis long nostril hairs. You trim but you always miss one.

Anyway. Buying a car. What I’m paying for the fucking rental to get me to dealerships is already more than I want to spend, ever. The fucking insurance costs 24 dollars a day. Enterprise has new management. Vigilant about inventory shrinkage. Can’t pay with a debit card with enough on it to rent the car five years. Must be credit. Then the chipper young dork tries to sell you a bunch of other garbage from a script and you can smell his agony. Corporations force every employee to upsell. Even fucking Burger King. I’m gonna cancel my card and give this car to a hobo. These people can blow me.

Relax. You will die and it won’t matter. This twenty thousand dollar hunk of plastic– driving it through air kills a million microbes a second. Each one exactly as significant as you. But then, they split themselves to reproduce. They don’t have to worry about pussy. So: fuck them. Privileged sacks of shit.

I’ll choose wrong, and then what. The car will break and I’ll spend money on top of money. The Rothschilds will own my organs and my inadequate cock and my hideous rash covered face. Toil forever to pay off compound interest that feeds on itself while my flesh depreciates. What are you gonna do. Beats taking the bus.

I think I’m patient zero for real world grey scale. It’s a dry and scaly rash. I have to wash my face three times a day just to keep the scales washed off away, and there’s only 2 products I can use on my face that don’t result in searing pain and huge red blotches forming across my face. Whatever it is must also be living on my glasses because it always starts on my nose where the fucking infection pads are, I’ve tried everything including soaking my glasses in alcohol for extended period while I ever so lightly scrub at my face with Proactiv’s old formula which I have stockpiled in my closet enough to last me till 2018. Their new formula also results in painful red rashes across my face. Hopefully I can save enough to afford to see a dermatologist as my current insurance plan won’t cover it. I’ve never used my health insurance for anything except a broken thumb from drunkenly playing laser tag in 2012. Even still they consider letting me die off from grayscale to be a cost effective option compared to simply paying for a dermatologist visit.

I too need a new car. I insist on driving a 92 Lexus SC300… because they’re just so reliable; I keep telling everyone. I don’t think I’ve ever drivenit for more than a month or two at a time before I’ve had to jack it up and tear it apart to fix this or that part. I think I got the one shitty 5-speed they made on Friday the 13th. It’s like having a hot girlfriend with Herpes. You can take her out and show her to your friends and be proud of it in public. But she spends so much time having a flare up that I never get to just lay her out on all fours and plow her into a hairpin like she was made to be.

I recently switch my cable provider from Time Warner to ATT Uverse. I didn’t even do it to save that much money, I just wanted a couple HD channels and a DVR box which they’d do for $30 cheaper a month, so with installation fees and equipment I’d break even 2 years from now. I paid for installation in the store because I had properly saved for this switch and didn’t want it to be on my first bill. They charged me for the install on my first bill again. Getting a human on the phone is difficult. Even when you do get a human, they’re often times trained to act like robots. Mention the bill and she instantly mentions that I ordered the Pacquiao fight which has nothing to do with February’s installation charge. She interrupts me constantly to remind me of all of the wonderful features available to me, and would I like to learn how to pay my bill online, and would I like to add a phone to my plan? I have been fighting for 3 months trying to get my $200 back, everytime I’m told a manager will review my account and call me back. A likely trick to keep their average call times down. People like me tend to hold their call times up, which means some manager won’t be able to show good measurables to his manager, so he has weekly “team building sessions” to hammer this point home with the finesse of a Dodge Ram trying to avoid the double parked prius hemming it against the curb. If I had spent the time I’ve spent on the phone with ATT working instead I probably would have made the $200 back and then some. I think they expect that connection to be made eventually.

I’m starting to think there isn’t even an individual on the other side of these exchanges benefiting from the extra money they took. It’d be one thing if money was being siphoned out through double charges to pay for a helicopter ranch in the maldives for some scheming bastard. But I don’t think any grand deception lies hidden by the tangled morass of awkwardly stilted English phrases thinly hidden behind a faked American accent. I think my money just fell through the electronic cracks and won’t even merit a blip on a graph of the quarterly earnings. It’s a grand nothing to them, money dumping into a grand fire as it hoovers out of the economy and into the black heart of computer corporatism. I’d rather have an evil CEO I could point to. Some enemy of some sort out there. Instead it’s just a system of apathy. It costs each employee too much to do anything more but shuffle me along to the next one. They’ve managed to pit us against each other. One working stiff against another. My money against there cost of living increase. And when those are the odds… how can I win?